At the 2012 Conference on College Composition and Communication, three well-known scholars of composition led a discussion on a writing exercise they'd assigned themselves. Each wrote for an hour a day for a 30-day month on an everyday object, a consciousness-raising activity that revealed much about the the objects examined and the writers themselves. We've taken it upon ourselves to replicate this exercise and record the results here.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Day 7: Lobject's blue stick pen

My husband and I are visiting his parents for Easter. I explained this blog project to my mother-in-law this morning. She asked if I wanted to use her laptop to write. “No, thanks.” My husband chimes in, “She prefers to write it down on paper. It’s what she does.” He is exactly right. I have my bright blue pen and light blue Southeastern Writing Center Association notepad and I’m ready for day 7.

I crave the act of writing, the pen smoothly inside my hand. It’s easier to maneuver than chopsticks and more natural. I hold the pen close to the tip where it’s safe. I write quickly then extend my thumb straight when I pause, pointing the pen away from me and parallel to the page.

I’ve enjoyed writing since the first week I learned letters in kindergarten. I filled up wide-lined paper with ls, and vs. Later, I relentlessly manipulated the each l into a t and each v into y. My first diary was purple with small, pink and white daisies along the boarder. The words My Diary were centered, fancy, gold, princess-like. It had a miniature lock; I hid he key in the back of a framed picture. On any given day, between 5-10 notepads are in my purse and often more pens than that. Each pen and notepad is ready to remember a conversation or idea for me.

One of my best friends picked me up for lunch yesterday. After pizza, she puts her son in his car seat.I turn around from the passenger seat to see him grabbing for something. It’s a toy so I hand it to him. With my both on either side on the white plastic rectangles, he opens it from the center, sitting the backside up. It’s a kid’s laptop and his mom asks if he’s going to do work on his laptop.

I decide my children will use pencils, pens and paper—items that will never be extinct to me. And if my someday, my children embarrassingly admit that I still use pens, will it be the same as when I joke about someone today who doesn’t text?